


Odd Imaginings

by ashilrak



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, High School, M/M, Romance, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:19:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Johnlockchallenges Gift Exchange. </p><p>My prompt was Teenlock for wheresthegreatperhaps on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd Imaginings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wheresthegreatperhaps](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wheresthegreatperhaps).



> Beta-ed and Britpicked by the ever-so-lovely ChalcedonyRivers

Our first meeting was a little odd. 

I was walking through the halls, as one normally does, and then suddenly He was in front of me. I’d seen him a few times, sitting in the corner of the library, but I’d never actually talked to him. Everyone knew his name, he was infamous. Sherlock Holmes, the genius loner sociopath who talked to no one. 

Well, he talked to me.

Like I said, it was an odd experience. We walked into each other – or as he insists to this very day, I walked into him; he was just standing there. Let us ignore the fact that his version of ‘just standing there’ was actually walking in circles in the middle of the main hall between classes. But, of course, it was at no fault of his own. It was his immediate reaction to my presence that stuck me; he looked at me like I was foreign. It made a part of me want to show him that I wasn’t.

When I say he talked to me, I mean he quickly commandeered my time and personal space and left little room for anyone else. Very few words were ever actually spoken. Actually that’s a lie. I would talk at him, yell at him, scream at him, but I would very rarely receive a response. Most of the time when he did deem me worthy enough to hear his voice it was simply my name and a tug of the arm.

That was how it was for the first few months. I was once what could be considered ‘popular’. I was on the rugby team, and I was very rarely single. I had good grades, which kept my parents happy, and I mucked around enough to keep my classmates happy. That slowly changed. Sherlock began to take up more of my time. Not in a way that was easily noticeable, well – not by me at least. I began to spend more and more time with him, and less time with everyone else. 

At first I was quite angry - I may or may not have had a row with Sherlock. He remained impassive as usual, nodding in the right spots. Though, looking back at it – I’m not sure that he was even paying attention to me. He was muttering to himself and writing things down in that bloody notebook of his. I suppose I eventually calmed down, because next thing I remember I was sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa looking over my notes from History.

Over time it did change. I become more accustomed to Sherlock’s oddities, and he started to actually take part in my life rather than take it over. It was a strange experience when that started. I had grown used to sitting in silence with him; he would sit there scribbling in his notebook, occasionally growing angry and crossing something out. I would sit there, silent, working on school work or other such things that needed to be done. Then all of a sudden, he called my name. I mean, he did that often enough. But this time it was different, this time he was actually asking my opinion on something. My opinion. Sherlock Holmes does not care about other people’s opinions, let alone mine. In his words, we were (and still are) all stupid. 

Well, he asked his question, and after I had gathered my wits enough I had answered. Of course, my surprise quickly faded as he barely considered my opinion at all. He tossed it aside, all while muttering about the stupidity of the human race. 

To be honest, he did have a point. For a race that prided themselves on being the most intelligent of beings, we are pretty stupid. Not only were we stupid, but we shunned those who had all that intelligence we’re so proud of. Sherlock Holmes is a prime example. 

Like I said, it’s not like my opinions actually matter. But these occurrences began to pop up more and more often, he would ask me my opinion, or actually have a conversation with me. What I said rarely mattered, but he still listened. He also stopped muttering, not that I mean he was silent; it was just that instead of muttering to himself, he would talk out loud. I liked to think that it was because he felt he had someone to listen to him now.

We grew more comfortable with each other, as time wore on. I had known Sherlock Holmes for close to three months before he actually talked to me like I existed. However, despite the slow moving process, I felt that it was just getting stronger and stronger, day by day.

It got to the point that where he would always talk as if I was with him. He would ask me questions, pertaining to something that he told me earlier, when I was halfway across town. Sherlock also began to invade my personal space more and more, not that he ever actually respected it in the first place. It just changed – instead of just sitting closer than usual, he would start to lean against me as if I was the arm of a chair. 

It got to the point where I would sit down, and immediately after I would find myself with a lap full of some part of Sherlock Holmes, be it his feet or his head. The first time that happened was a little shocking. We were sitting in the Library, as usual. I sat down first and next thing I knew, Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his head in my lap. I was more than a bit shocked, and sat there still and silent for many moments. 

That was the point where I just gave up.

Not that it was an unpleasant experience, but I just gave up on having any sort of life outside of Sherlock Holmes. I mean, before that point, I at least attempted to go to parties or meet up with the rest of the rugby team. Every now and then I even had a girlfriend; they never lasted long, but I did try. I craved that sense of normality, or at least I thought I did.  
However, that became the extent of my interaction with other people – in class. I stopped meeting up with anyone after school, and people stopped inviting me to parties and such. Sherlock took little notice of my personal life. He did notice, however, when I went to the library one day after school on a day where I would usually be attempting to socialize. He granted me a quick surprised look, and then lifted his feet and motioned for me to sit down. I did.

And that was how life continued. Every day after school we would go to the library and I would sit there doing homework, and Sherlock would do whatever it is that Sherlock does. On weekends he would magically appear at my front door and proceed to take over. The first time that happened my parents and sister were quite shocked, and so was I. I don’t think that he actually ever spent any time in his own home. Over breaks he would just stay, occasionally leaving when it was deemed time for him to go, but he would always return. 

I’ve never been to his home, and of what little I’ve managed to gather about Sherlock’s life, it was apparently very formal. His brother, six years older than him, worked for the government. His father had died years ago, and his mother controlled the estate. 

Yes, I say estate. Apparently the Holmes’ are an old family: a very rich, old family. Somewhat shocking to say the least, but at the same time it really wasn’t. He dressed, when not in uniform, rather posh. It’s not like he wore suits every day or anything, but he was always very put together. He always dressed to fit and flatter his form. He was very tall, and his slim build only made him look taller. However, from what little I could gather, Sherlock was also muscular. How he kept in shape, I could only imagine. He spent practically all his free time with me. 

However, I am not allowed to think such things about my, dear I say it, best friend. I am not allowed to think about how his dark curly hair in contrast to his pale skin only manages to make his eyes stand out more. His eyes are never, ever the same color. He really is beautiful.

Except those are thoughts that I am not allowed to have. I have forbid myself from having them.

Our days go on as normal. My grades have steadily been getting better as I have had time to work on my school work. It kept everyone happy, as well as furthering my chances of getting into a good Uni. I wanted to be an army doctor, you see. Something I had yet to tell Sherlock, although I had no doubt that he already knew. I didn’t exactly try to hide it, and even if I did –well, you can’t hide anything from Sherlock Holmes.

He notices everything. And I mean everything. He would glance at you for less than a second, and know exactly what you had for breakfast that day, as well as your life story.   
So I can’t say that it was that big a surprise when a bunch of papers were suddenly shoved in my face by one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Once I got over the initial shock and took a look at the papers, I realized that they were all detailing various medical programs and connections to the army. They looked like general papers the universities give to you to make you want to go there, but taking I closer look, I could tell that they were in fact much more than that. Those papers were a combination of blank applications and scholarship information.

I didn’t get a chance to actually say anything in reaction to that, as he continued on as if nothing had happened. He was lying out on the sofa, his textbooks open face down on his chest, talking out loud, speaking to no one in particular. 

The days continued after that. The bond between Sherlock and I had seemed to grow only stronger, but besides that, nothing had changed. The teachers were pressuring us into doing our best as the year was close to an end. Everywhere you looked there were posters about the various Universities and the numerous degrees that they offered. Life went on.

We were sitting up in my room when it happened. Up until that point, I had done pretty well to focus and not pay attention to the obvious attractiveness of my best friend. I was a teenage boy, and I couldn’t help it if my thoughts would stray – very often at inopportune moments, but I attempted to rein them in when they popped up. I can’t say that I was successful one hundred percent of the time, maybe more like seventy five percent of the time. At that point however, I may have been letting my mind wander. 

Sherlock was stretched out on my bed; I had given up on trying to get him to move. I was sitting in my desk chair, facing him. He was rambling what I assumed to be nonsense, I couldn’t say that I was actually listening. He had a very distinctive pose when he was thinking – he would steeple his hands under his chin, and would just look upwards. He had a distinguished profile, one that only helped fuel my attraction towards him. This pose only ever accentuated it. 

I must have zoned out, because I remember looking at him thinking about how lovely he would look if he had been wearing perhaps one less layer of clothing, and then I had my lap full of one Sherlock Holmes. Yes. My best friend, who I had not-so secretly been having feelings for, for little over a year, was straddling my lap with his face hovering only inches over mine. 

Then he did something I had only dreamed of happening, literally. I had woken up to find myself sticky one too many times. He kissed me. At first it was only a quick peck of the lips, very light, very hesitant. However, something in my expression must have told him exactly what I was feeling – because next thing I knew, I was snogging Sherlock Holmes.   
Snogging. 

And it was brilliant, and amazing and fantastic and better than I could have imagined.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Teenlock, so I was a bit nervous. Criticism is greatly appreciated.


End file.
